Damned if I’ll be the woman who collects mass produced throw pillows counts her county’s condoms shoots chemicals to drench the porch hornet on the way to recycle the obits hums Somalian rap—young—five minutes till the end one spring considers
Bituminous was so soft, so much like dust, you could cover a roaring fire till cold and darkness were all you had, then two even three weeks later you could poke it and the blue flames you identified with the
CONGREGATION We are six strangers gathered on a gravel road in the heart of the valley, waiting, whispering about the flock of bald eagles roosting in a distant stand of cottonwoods. Then it begins: Hunting low over the open
The dahlias’ unopened buds poke like periscopes above their clownish mass Green-yellow-red ranks of petals peel back around the hungry centers Their bent-open invitations frame a pillow of seed The long stems are drinking straws, the leaves a simple engine
The Headless Horseman The messenger was so dead they sent him to fetch life. It was easier said than done, but an agreeable mare was duly provided to him. The great desert of non-being knows no storms. Animal magnetism destroyed
This rough hooked lump, this botched antler of a dwarf moose, this half-melted candelabrum when skinned and cut is clean and bright— sun yellow, in cross section. Wok full of broccoli, forkful of forest fire: Radicle incendiary, light me up.
Your toys, my child, hold them dear, your toys smaller even than you. And at night, when the fire drifts off to sleep, — wrap them up in the stars from atop a tree. Let the golden pony graze the
I lent my Daily Missal, which had been published before they dropped the Latin, to Robin. Though she had been raised a Catholic in an Irish-Italian suburb of Boston in the sixties, had even been a “choir boy” until she
Love Talk What the boy heard his older sister say— Perfect, Fallen, Falling again— drew him to the blizzard snow. It was purely physical. He had his first red snow shovel. It was a tool. It needed use. He wasn’t
After Jim Moore If like a Buddhist I accepted the world as it was given, without judgement, does it mean I would remain unmoved by any atrocities, any tragedies? Karma gives birth to snakes, swine, songbirds. Step out of one
These white stripes of day achieve more than we could possibly hope for, with curtains –thin movements– shielding the curious birds. Pure pleasure is illuminated by each sequence of bright and shadow on the wall. Think of this– Light stands
Wayne had already flung off his t-shirt, pulled off his black Khakis to set up our tent—I can work faster if I’m naked—a new weed in the wet and wild. Faster, maybe, but not better: he slammed things together, tangled ropes.
Hidden from all mothers’ eyes by blinded windows glowing, I chase two neighbor sisters up slides and platforms, my boy heart surely rising as we round a silver maple, past the open gate, the scooter I’d cast off—my sister’s purple
Start Me Up! was what started it--Monica Litzkus from up the street got tight that afternoon so she put on Tattoo You cranked to the Max & anybody coming over to complain got handed a beer & invited to dance